The sea was crusty that day, my friends. Almost as crusty as the crusty hate on the old man’s haggard and bitter face. He came from the Crust-ation period.
He woke up angry and angrily cleaned the crust from eyes. He then reached for his underwear that was, well, at this point it doesn’t really need to be said, does it?
For breakfast he noshed on a crusty piece of bread and only the crust of a piece of pie.
His crusty toes tickling crusty sand, he staggered across the beach until crusty waves engulfed his feet. He raised his crustily clenched fist and shouted, “It is I, the saloa! Here I am!! Come and get me if you dare!”
Just offshore sharks with crusty teeth smiled and waited…